Page 8 of Mom Ball

Apple Cart County Baptist added a drum set. I guess the elders opposed to anything besides keyboard and string music have all died in the time I’ve been gone.

A younger guy plays the drums, but the same women sit at the piano and organ. I don’t recognize the guitar player, but he’s older as well.

The drums are a nice touch, making “I’ll Fly Away” a little less of a snooze fest. Mom pats her knee and sings along. I didn’t inherit her love of hymnals.

My eyes scan the crowd as I hide a yawn.

Like a beacon from heaven, Brooke’s brown hair shines under the fluorescent lights. It’s down and curled rather than in a messy bun. Her face is smooth with her usual natural makeup look, instead of the painted goop.

Mom clears her throat loudly.

“What?” I whisper just as loudly.

She pinches my ear like I’m a kid.

“Ouch.”

“It’s not polite to stare in church. Pay attention to the choir.”

I would, if Brooke were in the choir.

Against my wishes, I mind Mom and face the front of the church. I make it a few more songs before my eyes wander.

Timothy turns around and waves at me.

I give as tiny a wave as possible with my big hand. Brooke stays facing forward, but I pretend she sees me out of the corner of her eye. Her family is closer to the front, but on the other side. Just far enough for me to not see her without turning my head.

Mom hits a high note on the last chord of the last song. I flinch at the unexpected pitch. While I’m irritated, I make a note to ask her about not telling me Brooke has a kid, and possibly a husband.

There’s no man on their pew besides her dad.

I force myself to face forward again. The guy could be working or sick or something. I’ll need to check her ring finger again. She’s at church, wearing makeup and earrings. If she has a wedding band, she’ll have it on.

The pastor reads a list of announcements while the choir and band exit the stage. Not much interests me except the part about having a golf benefit once the cows are sold from the county pasture.

Golf is a sport I’ve learned to like over the years. Charity events like to invite athletes from other sports to play in tournaments, and it’s a nice change of pace from killing the ball all the time.

That event is sandwiched between baby showers and planning the Easter program.

Without warning, he goes into prayer. I bow my head and wait for the “amen.” Then I conveniently lift my head in the direction of Brooke.

The sermon is a blur as I zone in and out of paying attention. My focus is on Brooke and tossing around scenarios of what she’s been up to since we broke up.

I can’t leave today without talking to her. If things start to go sour, I’ll claim I came over to talk about helping Timothy with ball.

Once the final “amen” is said, I spring to my feet.

An older couple stands between me and the end of the pew. I don’t want to hurry them or smoosh them between pews trying to get out. Mom is turned around talking to someone on the other side of me. My only option is patience.

The good news is I can easily see over the couple’s heads.

I follow Brooke with my eyes as they take their time shuffling to the end of the pew. She stands and picks up her things.

I’m finally free and on my way across the sanctuary when a hand hits my chest.

“Well, if it isn’t Nathaniel Miller.”

Mrs. Ethel stares up at me. She hasn’t changed much at all, except that she’s now using a walker. One of those fancy ones that has a little seat and a pocket on the front.

---